


The Thought that Counts

by phantisma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-23
Updated: 2006-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean considers the relationship with his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thought that Counts

The presents were apologies, though John Winchester would never admit that. Still, Dean tucked them away, never acknowledging the reasons for them, never pressing. He could have stopped it, he could have, maybe should have…but now, when it was just him and his father, he couldn’t bring himself to deny him anything.

It was his job. Dean took care of this family, in all the ways that mattered. And if that meant he let Sammy go off to school, he did. And if that meant he took a bullet so the old man could keep on fighting, he did. And if that meant he gave his father what limited comfort he could in the cold, dark hours before dawn…so be it.

The first time he’d been only fifteen. John had been gone on a hunt and came back bruised and beat up…a few broken ribs a head wound. Dean had helped him clean up, taped up his ribs, brought him the bottle of Johnny Walker from the cabinets, and sat with him while he dulled the pain. He’d had a nip or two as well and there wasn’t any talking, not even when John’s hand caressed his back…certainly not when John’s eyes closed and he whimpered…

Dean was no innocent, even then…and it wasn’t John’s fault, not entirely. Not that night, or any night since.

Two days later, his father gave him a knife. It was a beauty of a blade, could slice through nearly anything. They didn’t say anything, but John didn’t touch him for a long time, not even casually.

It was more than two years before it happened again. This time it was Sam who was hurt…a tumble down a steep hill, a concussion, a sprained ankle…nothing serious. It was enough though. John was angry and scared and focused on Dean.

_“You should have been with him.”_

_“I was with him…I just couldn’t catch him.”_

_“He could have died.”_

_He was close enough now to smell the alcohol on his breath and when he shoved Dean against the wall, Dean knew where it would go. “He didn’t die. He’s safe. He’s alive. We’re all alive.”_

_John nodded, his face dark, dangerous. Dean made the first move. His lips met his father’s tasting whiskey as his tongue moved into John’s mouth._

_The elder Winchester pulled back. “Christ, Dean!”_

_Dean hung his head and waited. His father was tense, tight. His body radiated conflicting things, desire, disgust, need, fear. When he pushed Dean back to the wall, it was his tongue that pushed into Dean’s mouth, his knee that pressed into Dean’s groin._

_He moaned into Dean’s mouth as Dean’s hands moved down to cup his cock and bring it to fully hard in an instant. “Let me help you.” Dean whispered._

_The fight left John’s body and Dean maneuvered them to the couch. Dean took a shot off the bottle of whiskey and gave it to his father before he opened his jeans and dropped them, bending over the couch, offering himself up to his father. There was lube, cause he was seventeen and he carried it around with him, and he used it to prep himself, pushing a finger inside himself while his father watched and drank. “Dean.” He didn’t sound like himself, but Dean reached for him…and then the sound of his zipper, the feeling of his hands, his cock._

Dean was no virgin, even then…but his father was big and the burn had brought tears to his eyes. It was fast, and when it was over, John stumbled outside with the bottle and Dean showered before crawling into bed with Sam. Three days later, John gave him the keys to the Impala.

Almost like it was easier, it happened more frequently after that. Never without the easing of alcohol, never where Sam could know. Always there was a gift, something small…as if it soothed a guilty conscience. He never spoke. The only words in those moments came from Dean, words of pleading…words of absolution…because John needed it, needed the release, needed the relief…and Dean was there to be whatever he needed.

It was seldom tender, and then only if John was too drunk to drive and Dean did the work. It sometimes bordered on violent, because it was just easier. The night Sam left, it almost ended up bloody. They were both close to drunk, each stewing in their own anger.

_Dean climbed into the shower, planning a quick cooling off and then bed…to sleep off the alcohol and the grief. When he came into the room he’d shared with Sam the night before, his father was there, on Sam’s bed, crying._

“He’s gone.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean pulled off the towel and used it to wipe down his body. Before he could think about pulling on a clean pair of boxers, his father was behind him, pushing him…walking them toward the dresser. Dean could feel his erection through his jeans, could taste the alcohol on his breath. “You could have been nicer.”

John pushed him into the dresser. “It was your job to take care of him.”

“I did. Took him to the bus station. Got him out of this crazy shit.”

John pushed harder and Dean could feel the hardware biting into his skin. He let his hands fall to his sides, giving in…letting go…John’s mouth was hard against his shoulder, not quite biting. John’s zipper was loud in the room where the only other sound was the two of them breathing. His every touch was hot, hard, and he wasted nothing in the prep, just angled Dean’s hips and thrust inside him, pulling him back roughly until some unrecognizable noise escaped his mouth.

The first few thrusts were hard, painful, but as his ass opened up, it was better. John pulled them away from the dresser and pushed Dean face first onto Sam’s bed…Dean clutched at the blankets that still smelled of Sam. Sweat dripped off his father’s face onto his back. He reached under Dean to pull on his cock in time to the thrusting and Dean came long before his father.

Now, six months later and at least that many late night rounds of frantic fucking and early morning denials, and Dean is standing outside a hospital room, contemplating calling his brother. Sam should be there. Sam should know.

John’s in that room, hooked up to IVs and monitors, as close to dying as he’s ever been and Dean is scared. He knows how to be the pin between them, the one who holds them together…he doesn’t know how to be the one who needs to be held together. He looks down at the cell phone, yet another present from John…way more technology than Dean has ever needed. He flips it shut with the shake of his head and pockets it before letting himself back into the room.

He takes up his place, beside his father…always beside, beneath…never more than a hand’s reach away. There’s something in the slack face, in the white bandages and the slow beep of the monitor that makes Dean feel young again…a child…but he hasn’t been that for years.

There’s a faint squeeze of his hand, and Dean looks up. John’s eyes are thick with tears. “I’m sorry.” He whispers it and Dean shakes his head. Before the hunt there had been words, angry, stilted words and Dean had ended the fight on his knees.

“No. Don’t apologize. Just…get better.” Dean says. “It’s all the present I want.”

John shakes his head. “I shouldn’t—“

“You didn’t.” Dean raises his hand to his lips, kisses the back of it tenderly. “I did.”

“I should have ended it.”

“If you die on me it will end it.” It is as close to talking about it as they’d ever come. Dean couldn’t look at him, bites his lip to keep from saying more. “So don’t die,” he finally says.

He puts John’s hand down on the blanket and stands. “Don’t die, and maybe this time I’ll bring you a present.”

He walks away, because more words won’t change anything, and he doesn’t know how to make his father understand. So he does what he knows, he goes after the thing that nearly killed him. He kills the black dog and brings his father a hunk of it’s pelt.

Okay, maybe it’s a grisly gift…but it’s the thought that counts.


End file.
